


The Oldest Sin

by KillClaudio



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (there was an attempt), Friends With Benefits, Good Omens Narrative Style, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, very brief cameo by Freddie Mercury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillClaudio/pseuds/KillClaudio
Summary: "And I remember when you wouldn't go to the theatre. 'Spreading lewd ideas', you said. 'A den of vice and iniquity',yousaid. And then you made me sit through all those morality plays." Crowley shuddered. "The fourteenth century. I'm surprised it didn't bore us both to death.""Yes, alright," Aziraphale said. "You've been right about some things. Butsex?"





	The Oldest Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallredboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/gifts).



> Thank you for such a wonderful set of prompts, smallredboy! I had a great time writing it, and I only hope you have as much fun reading. ♥ I guess this is set pre-Nopocalypse, around the 70s or 80s, but *waves hands* time is an illusion.

"Oh, go _on_ ," Crowley said. "It'll be fun."

"I really don't think so, my dear." Aziraphale took another sip of his Saint-Émilion Grand Cru. It took three attempts for the glass to meet his lips.

"You'll like it!" Crowley gestured unwisely with his own glass of wine and sloshed it everywhere. He put it back with a wave of his hand. "Remember when I wanted you to try gravlax? 'Raw fish?' you said. 'That sounds horrible,' you said."

"This is different," Aziraphale said primly.

"And I remember when you wouldn't go to the theatre. 'Spreading lewd ideas', you said. 'A den of vice and iniquity', _you_ said. And then you made me sit through all those morality plays." Crowley shuddered. "The fourteenth century. I'm surprised it didn't bore us both to death."

"Yes, alright," Aziraphale said. "You've been right about some things. But sex?"

They were drinking in the back room of Aziraphale's dingy bookshop in Soho. The back rooms of most Soho establishments are used for rather more disreputable things than a literary argument and a few glasses of wine, and Crowley had been suddenly inspired—with that inspiration that only comes to the deeply inebriated—with the idea that they should put it to its proper use.

"What's wrong with sex?" he demanded.

"Lust is a sin."

"So is gluttony, but you're still allowed to eat. Humans are allowed to have sex, aren't they?"

"Well, yes, after marriage—"

"Not sure that really applies to us."

"I suppose not…"

"Do you…?" Crowley made a universal gesture that could not be misinterpreted.

Aziraphale blushed. "Certainly not. I'm not sure what the humans see in it."

"There you go, then. It'll help you understand humans better. Give you an amazing new insight into their motivations."

"I do know _some_ things about humans—"

"Anyway, how will you thwart my wiles if you don't even know what it is I'm wile-ing them to do, hmm?"

Aziraphale looked at him narrowly. "It's no good trying to tempt _me_ , dear boy. I know you too well."

But tempting was Crowley's métier, so to speak, and after 6000 years he was an expert. He knew all Aziraphale's weak spots. Besides, he remembered the fuss Aziraphale had put up about the gravlax.

"Look, let's start with something simple. Here." He refilled Aziraphale's wine (getting the object of your affec— _lust_ drunk was a time-honoured tradition, after all) and settled next to him on the sofa. "Hold my hand."

"Hold your hand?" Aziraphale smiled. "Crowley. I've always said that underneath it all you're really quite sweet."

"All right, all right. Do you want to get me into trouble?" Crowley took Aziraphale's plump, elegantly-manicured hand and held it in his lap. With one hand he twined his fingers with Aziraphale's, while the other traced lines across Aziraphale's palm. "That's nice, isn't it?"

"It tickles," Aziraphale complained. Crowley pressed more firmly. "Oh. Yes. That _is_ nice."

Crowley pulled Aziraphale's cufflink out and slid warm fingers across the skin on the inside of his wrist. "How's that?"

"Mmm…" Aziraphale's head dropped back against the sofa, and his eyes fell shut. Crowley rubbed a thumb over Aziraphale's pulse point, then brought it up to his mouth and pressed a delicate kiss to his palm, the base of his thumb, his wrist.

The happy sigh this produced sent tingles all though Crowley, sparking across his skin and down his spine. Aziraphale, like most angels, was a creature of intellect rather than impulse. The only thing he responded instinctively to was food, which was why watching him eat always held a strange thrill for Crowley. And now he had his eyes closed and his mouth open, tongue sliding out to lick his lips, and Crowley couldn't have looked away if every demon in hell had turned up to watch them.

He started slowly slipping Aziraphale's sleeve up his arm and danced the tips of his fingers across his skin. Aziraphale still dressed with Victorian modesty, so much so that even the sight of his forearms was outright erotic. Aziraphale's tie was askew, his collar just slightly open, and as Crowley ran soft fingers over Aziraphale's palm his eyes raked over the bare skin of his neck, the hollow of his throat, imagining pressing the lightest possible kiss there to hear him sigh…

His thoughts must have been audible, because Aziraphale said, "I admit, I've never indulged before, but surely the humans wear fewer clothes than this?"

Crowley smiled wickedly; not that he had any other kind of smile. "Are you asking me to undress you, angel?"

"I rather thought you were the one asking." One eye opened to look at him sharply. "Or was this whole business _not_ your suggestion?"

That was a challenge if ever Crowley had heard one. "Come here," he said, and dragged Aziraphale closer by the lapels.

By the time they'd finished, Aziraphale was flushed, gasping, and entirely, gloriously naked, just as Crowley had planned. They ended up lying on the sofa together in a slightly awkward tangle, limbs askew; Aziraphale's Presence had broken the bounds of his body and was covering Crowley like a warm blanket. The angel was lying on his back staring at the ceiling, with the kind of shell-shocked expression Crowley hadn't seen since they'd both found a bunch of Mesopotamian farmers fermenting grapes in 5000BC.

Crowley gave him a smug smile. "Well?"

Aziraphale caught his breath. "That was—actually, rather better than gravlax."

He should bloody well think so, too. As far as Crowley was concerned, sex with Aziraphale knocked every other corporeal pleasure into a cocked hat. He wanted to indulge in it again as soon as possible. "Do it again sometime?" he asked, in a voice so laid back you could have used it as a spirit level.

"I suppose there couldn't be any harm in it, could there?" Aziraphale said, and Crowley lay back and luxuriated in a job well done.

And yet, he found himself strangely dissatisfied.

Crowley should have been happy. He was corrupting Aziraphale; not too much, of course, not enough to get him in trouble Up There, just enough to make him fun to spend time with. Crowley and Aziraphale both agreed that the world was a marvellous place and they might as well enjoy it to the full, and one of Crowley's chief pleasures over the centuries had been finding subtle new ways to draw Aziraphale deeper into…not vice, exactly, but…call it gratification.

White truffles. Antique books. Silk shirts. Crêpes Suzette. Aziraphale hadn't quite embraced sleep the way Crowley had, but certainly there were occasions where a nap was a reasonable response to, for example, eating a very large lunch complete with several bottles of wine.

Persuading Aziraphale to embrace the pleasures of the flesh would surely be just as much fun. And it had been, in a way. Crowley had just been expecting something a bit different. Something with a bit more—passion.

What he needed, clearly, was to take Aziraphale somewhere that inspired passion in humans.

Crowley hadn't invented football, but he'd made sure to take credit for most of its nastier side-effects; mob violence, head injuries, commentators. There was just so much potential for the kind of efficient mass temptation that had become his specialty, and the roaring atmosphere of mingled joy and grief and rage sent sparks through him every time.

Naturally, Aziraphale preferred cricket, but he could be persuaded to watch the occasional football match. Cooperation and team spirit were highly regarded Up There, (both of them had managed to claim team-building exercises as a success for their side), and Heaven was happy to hear about the theoretical benefits of team sports without asking much about the practicalities.

Besides, Crowley had always had a deep appreciation for standing on the sidelines. Standing on the sidelines was where he felt he belonged. For one thing, you could criticise without any danger that you'd be expected to actually fix anything. It didn't matter if he and Aziraphale were cheering for different teams. They were there together.

"Yes, but Manchester United?" Aziraphale complained.

"A demon's got to support the most evil team. It's whatsit. Ineluctable. Just like you've got to support the Saints."

Aziraphale looked doubtfully at where Southampton were losing to United 3-1. "I suppose so."

There was a roar from the crowd as a slightly rough tackle caused two players to throw themselves to the ground. Crowley reached out and gently prompted the referee to give the Saints a completely undeserved penalty, and Aziraphale beamed at him. "Thank you, my dear." He started happily humming 'When the Saints Go Marching In'.

Crowley ignored the buzz of pleasure that shivered in his chest at that smile. Making Manchester United fans unhappy was guaranteed to spread a lot of low-grade misery through the country. He hadn't done it for Aziraphale.

In the end, Southampton won by four goals to three, United fans caused havoc on public transport on their way home, and Aziraphale stood pressed close to Crowley's side throughout the whole match. It was a good day.

To cap it off, Crowley managed to get Aziraphale to come back to the flat with him after dinner. He poured them both a generous glass of whiskey and they sat on Crowley's sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the lights twinkling along the Thames.

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's hand. "Next time, you'll have to come with me to the cricket," he said, and then he leaned over and kissed Crowley on the mouth.

It was a good thing Crowley didn't actually need to breathe, because for several minutes he couldn't have managed it, caught like a fly in amber in the unbearable sweetness of Aziraphale's kiss. He hadn't thought this would be part of the new facet of their arrangement, hadn't thought Aziraphale would _want_ it to be, and now he could do no more than cling helplessly as he imagined the angel touching him, stroking his cheek adoringly, telling him how wonderful it felt, how well they fit together—

He pulled back abruptly, and started unbuttoning the angel's waistcoat. "If that's what you wanted, you only had to ask."

Aziraphale obediently started opening Crowley's own clothes, one hand sneaking up into his hair. "My dear? Last time was very nice, but I thought perhaps this time we could, ah…"

"Hmm?" Crowley looked up. "Oh, would you prefer the bed?" He stood and started tugging the Aziraphale towards the bedroom.

"Well, I would, but that wasn't quite what I had in mind…"

Crowley opened his mouth to ask what he did have in mind, but didn't get further than a muffled 'Wh—' before Aziraphale kissed him again. God, it was perfect. It was too good to be allowed. If Crowley could bottle Aziraphale's kisses he could tempt the whole of humanity down into hell. It was causing an unaccustomed surge of tenderness and warmth to overflow in him in a way Crowley was fairly sure demons weren't even supposed to know about, let alone feel.

This was all wrong. He was supposed to be tempting Aziraphale into vice, not getting dragged up into virtue.

He pulled Aziraphale's hands away from where they had been softly playing with his hair, then leaned down and bit gently behind the angel's ear.

Aziraphale shivered. "Oh, my word. What—? Was that—?"

Crowley did it again, a little more roughly, and was thrilled to hear a small, shocked sound escape Aziraphale's lips.

"I've got something to show you," he told Aziraphale, and hauled him towards the bedroom.

 _Not passion_ , he decided later, lying alone in his overpriced bed after Aziraphale had ambled home full of whiskey. At least not like this. There was something else he needed, if only he could put his finger on it. 

In the early days of the Arrangement, he and Aziraphale had bonded over a shared love of food and drink. Crowley still had fond memories of the little tavern in Paris where they'd split a flagon of mead and sugared almonds; of introducing Aziraphale to sake in Kyoto; of eating cool, fresh slices of melon together on the banks of the Maipo River. 

That was what he needed. Lunch.

The garden seating at the Ritz was invariably booked up months in advance, but for some unaccountable reason all the other guests had decided to sit inside on this gorgeous summer's day. Aziraphale and Crowley got the sole attention of a slightly puzzled waiter who was happy to bring them anything they wanted.

Watching Aziraphale eat was always a pleasure for Crowley. He did it with a kind of innocent abandon no human could achieve, accompanied by occasional small murmurs and sighs of delight. If Aziraphale had any idea how erotic it was watching him lick the lemon garlic sauce off his lips, he'd probably be a lot more circumspect. Crowley wasn't going to tell him.

But apparently he wasn't as subtle as he thought, because Aziraphale dabbed at his lips and frowned at him. "I do wish you wouldn't look at me that way. As though I was the one on the menu."

"Maybe later," Crowley told him with a wink. He caught the eye of a waiter, who oiled over immediately. "The dessert menu, please."

"I really shouldn't," said Aziraphale, in the tones of one who is hoping to be persuaded.

Always a good reason to do something, in Crowley's opinion. "Course you should," he said, nudging the menu closer. "If you want, we can share."

They ordered Gateau St. Honoré for two, and Crowley ate a few mouthfuls while he watched in smug silence as Aziraphale demolished the whole thing. There was something secret and wonderful about sitting there together in the sunshine, knowing when they'd finished he would pay the bill and take his angel home and debauch him.

But still Crowley wanted _more_ , in some way that he could neither help nor explain. He couldn't get enough of Aziraphale. The way he talked, the way he rolled his eyes whenever Crowley used words invented after 1800, the way he hummed along to the Brandenburg Concertos as he made tea; even his prehistoric dress sense was endearing. They would eat lunch together, drinking and talking well into the afternoon, and by dinner time Crowley would already be missing him, wishing again to have the angel sitting across the table from him and smiling over his glass of wine.

In desperation, he bought ruinously expensive tickets to _La Bohème_ , then casually mentioned that they'd fallen into his lap, and would Aziraphale like to go?

Aziraphale enjoyed the opera. The music was a great deal better than anything the celestial spheres had ever produced, and he seemed to enjoy the melodrama. Aziraphale often assured Crowley that, deep down at the bottom, human beings were pretty decent really, and you could rely on them to do the right thing some of the time. Crowley wasn't sure what a bunch of people screaming about being poor and in love had to do with that, but at least it made Aziraphale happy.

Crowley enjoyed the opera, too. That was because he nursed a private belief that every single human was completely bonkers, and opera made him feel justified in that opinion. Half of them weren't really enjoying it, and the ones who were spent most of the time complaining about it. 

He idly amused himself during the performance by mentally scanning for people who'd forgotten to turn their phones off and then causing them to ring, but stopped when Aziraphale frowned at him. Then he prompted the few children in the audience to kick the chairs in front of them, but that barely took him five minutes. Finally, as the fourth act hurtled towards its tragic conclusion, Crowley happened to glance across at his angel.

Aziraphale looked utterly transported. His face was lit with a kind of exultation, his shining eyes fixed on the stage and a rapturous smile on his lips. He was beautiful.

The sight tugged on the threads of hunger that had been bothering Crowley since he first suggested their new arrangement to Aziraphale. Something reached into his heart and twisted, and he caught his breath with the intensity of longing. Whatever it was he wanted, this was it, the expression on Aziraphale's face of combined fervour and passion and joy. But he didn't know how to get it.

He'd beg, if he knew just what the Heaven he was begging for.

The screeching finally ended, and Aziraphale shook himself out of his trance. "Wasn't that lovely?" He beamed at Crowley. "Thank you for bringing me."

"Yeah, it's always fun when everyone dies at the end," Crowley said bitterly, and dragged Aziraphale towards the exit.

Crowley took Aziraphale to restaurants and theatres and art galleries, walked with him around Kew and went to watch the Ashes, and every time they went back to the bookshop or Crowley's flat for a drink afterwards. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. 

The problem was that Aziraphale made Crowley want to be thoroughly, horribly _good_. He wanted to rescue kittens and help little old ladies cross the street. He wanted to make Aziraphale smile at him. He wanted to hold Aziraphale's hand. Crowley had never thought very highly of Heaven and its rules. Whatever grace was given to Earth had been brought here by Aziraphale. He was made for loving, and Crowley was helpless to do anything but love him.

No matter how he sated his body, it was futile. Crowley was beginning to realise that it was his heart that was starving.

He should have known that it would all go wrong. One night in the back room of the bookshop, Crowley reached for Aziraphale and was gently pushed away.

"My dear. Not now."

"Not tonight, Josephine?" Crowley asked bitterly.

"Please don't. It's not as though I haven't done everything you asked."

" _I_ asked?" That hurt. "I didn't force you to do anything. You were enjoying yourself. 'Oh, yes. Oh, there.'"

"Perhaps that was a mistake on my part. I don't—I'm not sure we should ever have started this."

"Oh, don't start on about sin again, please. You know as well as I do that sin is when it's done by the wrong side."

"The same rules that apply to humans apply to us. It's supposed to be a physical expression of _love_ , and without love—"

"And there's no love here," Crowley said bitterly, gone suddenly cold. That wasn't what he'd been hoping for—hadn't let himself raise his thoughts that high, hadn't let himself dream. He would have been happy to take what he thought Aziraphale was offering; his company, his conversation, their shared delight in physical gratification of every kind, maybe even the occasional cherished kiss. But if Aziraphale didn't even want that—

"If that's how you feel about it, my dear—"

The endearment was too much. Crowley flung himself off the sofa and headed for the door. "I don't feel anything," he said. "Why would I? Demons don't care about sin. We don't care about anything at all." 

He took the long way home so that he could break as many speed limits as possible and ignore all the stop signs, but it didn't make him feel better. The spartan emptiness of his flat, which had seemed so slick and cool, now felt as though it was mocking him. Crowley flung himself on the sofa and blessed the day he ever thought of tempting Aziraphale into anything. He hadn't made a lot of friends in hell, any more than Aziraphale had in heaven. They were both out here alone, metaphorically as well as literally. That had always seemed, to Crowley, to be the best part. The whole world his playground, and Aziraphale to share it with.

And now he had ruined things by arguing with the only other person in Creation who understood him. Oh, he could spend the next ten years travelling, go back to that bar he liked in Istanbul, maybe visit Nepal and see how his old friend Tenzin was doing. Swagger back in a decade from now and hope that Aziraphale had been distracted by something else. But all of a sudden the idea of being away from Aziraphale was making him feel very tired, and very, very lonely.

Well, Crowley would be blessed if he was going to sit around swooning and sighing like a maiden. There were plenty of lithe, eager young men in this city, and it was Crowley's job to corrupt them.

He went to a squalid bar down an alley in Soho—it served the best whisky, that was all, nothing to do with anything else—and bought a drink for a young man in tight jeans and a leather jacket with nothing on underneath. It had been a while since he'd tempted anyone with what you might call the personal touch, but surely it was like riding a bike.

Twenty minutes later, the young man had glazed eyes and Crowley began to suspect he was out of practice. "I mean," he said, "it's not as if I care about him or anything. It doesn't matter to me if he's not interested. Where does he get off, anyway, talking to me about love? What would he know about it?"

"All I said was, 'What do you do for a living?'" the man said grumpily.

"Right. Sorry." He tried to pull himself together. "Do you want another…?" A flash of blond hair made him turn suddenly, scanning the crowd for what he'd only seen out of the corner of his eye. But it was a strange woman with flaxen hair approaching the bar, not his— Not anyone he knew at all. He turned back to his companion, but the man had walked off. Crowley wished he could bring himself to care. Instead, he raised his hand. "Scotch," he told the bartender. "Make it a double."

In total that week Crowley visited one hundred and sixty-three of London's finest drinking establishments. He slept with a series of innocent blond cherubs with soft hands and kind voices, took them back to dim hotel rooms where the faint city lights filtering in between the curtains made them nothing but warm bodies he could hold close, barely a faint imitation of what he really wanted. He tried again with dark-haired men in anonymous clubs, went with them to hidden back rooms where he kept his eyes closed the entire time and tried not to remember sweet kisses and a rapturous expression… 

Finally, he gave in and called the one man who he thought might be able to help him forget.

"The thing is, Freddie," Crowley said, "what else could I say to him?"

"Nothing, mate." Freddie rolled over and lit one of Crowley's cigarettes. "Sometimes it just doesn't work out."

Crowley liked Freddie. He had a voice like an ang— that is to say, he had an extraordinarily beautiful human voice, and he inspired so much lust and envy in everyone he met that he was doing quite a lot of Crowley's job for him. He was also very good company.

"I tried," Crowley said, leaning over to steal the cigarette. "I did my best. Took him anywhere he wanted. Bought him dinner."

Freddie nodded sagely. "That's just the way it is sometimes. You can't force yourself to feel something."

Crowley imagined Aziraphale, alone in his bookshop, trying to force himself to feel love for a demon. It made him feel sick.

"Poor bloke," Freddie added. "In love with you."

Crowley jerked around to look at him, and nearly set fire to the duvet. "You what?"

"It's not his fault either, is it? He can't help the way he feels."

"Hang on, hang on a minute." Crowley didn't resist as Freddie stole the cigarette back. "What do you mean, in love with me?"

"Isn't that what he said? He wasn't interested unless there was love involved?"

"He said there wasn't any love!"

"You said that." Freddie took a drag on the cigarette. "That's what you just told me." 

"No. No, wait." That couldn't be right. Crowley couldn't have messed up that badly. "He didn't want to! He said—"

"He said he wasn't interested in casual," Freddie put in helpfully, "and _you_ said—"

"'There's no love here.'" Crowley stared at him open-mouthed. "Oh, Satan."

"Have you just done something a bit stupid?"

"Quite stupid," Crowley said faintly. "Yeah." So stupid that not even an idiot like Hastur would believe it. So stupid that the Spanish Inquisition would probably have left him alone out of pity. So stupid he was going to have to spend the next century humouring Aziraphale's magic tricks to make up for it. "I have to go out. Make yourself at home, there's food in the fridge."

Freddie sprawled in the bed. "Have you got any champagne?"

"Help yourself." Crowley threw his clothes on and practically ran for the door, throwing over his shoulder, "Just don't turn on the TV!"

He drove to Soho like a bat out of hell and was frantically ringing Aziraphale's doorbell and peering in through the glass ten minutes later. Then he had a quick re-think, and leaned back against a pillar, trying to look calm.

The door opened. Aziraphale was silhouetted against the light, still fully dressed. "Crowley?"

"Hi. Uh."

"It's quite late." Aziraphale looked at his watch. "In fact, it's four in the morning. If you—"

"Look," Crowley said desperately. "Bit of a miscommunication. Could we try this again? Because I've been in love with you since the beginning of time, and I'm starting to think maybe you haven't noticed?"

Aziraphale stood for a moment, staring at him in blank shock. "I think you'd better come in."

They made their way in silence through the dark bookshop. The back room was a little haven of light and warmth, the friendly clutter of books and tea things on every surface. Aziraphale fussed with the tea tray, rearranging things to no purpose. "Crowley," he began hesitantly. "There's no need for you to…pretend. It's quite alright."

Crowley blinked at him, stunned. "Are you," he asked, "completely bloody mad?"

Aziraphale frowned at him. "There's no need for that. I'm only saying that you don't need to spare my feelings—"

"You are. You're mad. Listen to me. I am in love with you. Do you honestly think I spent all this time with you just because of demonic wiles or something?"

"Well, first there was the Arrangement. And then you seemed to get a kick out of leading me along the primrose path, so to speak."

"I wanted to spend time with you. I wanted—" Crowley tried to summarise the tangle of thoughts and emotions that had been whirring through his mind. How could he have been so blind to his own feelings? "It's been so long. I didn't know—"

"Neither did I. I didn't know how it would feel." Aziraphale blushed. "I do, you know. What you asked before. Angels aren't supposed to care for such physical things, but… I do it. And every time, I think about you."

Crowley grabbed him and bore him down onto the sofa, kissing Aziraphale for all he was worth to stop the stupid awful declarations of love and devotion that were trying to escape his mouth. Demons weren't supposed to dream about kissing, either, but Crowley had thought of nothing but Aziraphale's lips and his hands and his eyes and the way he would smile—yes, there, he was smiling against Crowley's mouth, and one hand had come up to stroke Crowley's cheek in a gesture so tender it was almost enough to make him cry.

"I love you, you idiot," he whispered, and this time Aziraphale must have believed him because he wrapped his arms around Crowley's waist and pulled him down.

Neither of them could bear to stop kissing for a second, but they somehow managed to get out of their clothes with a combination of miracles and good old-fashioned yanking at buttons. Crowley spread his hands across Aziraphale's body, exploring everything, and Aziraphale made the most delightful whimpering sound; a desperate, wordless plea. Crowley had never imagined he could even make a noise like that. 

They pressed up against each other, every inch of skin touching, as close as they could possibly get. The movement of Aziraphale's body against his was sending waves of shivering pleasure flowing through Crowley, and his hips jerked up of their own accord, pleading for more more more. And God, the heat between them, the way Aziraphale's fingers were stroking the back of his neck and he was gasping against Crowley's mouth. 

Crowley let loose, just a little, from the bounds of his physical form. Aziraphale rose up to meet him immediately, a rush of sweet ecstasy that overtook him and bore him up on the tide, and then Aziraphale was crying out sharply and Crowley let the pleasure overwhelm him. 

Sticky, sweaty and deliriously happy, he rolled them both gently onto their sides, so they could lie facing each other on the narrow sofa. Aziraphale was wearing an expression of outright joy that made his face at the opera look stoic in comparison. 

"My dearest. I've been hoping for this for a very long time."

Those of angelic and demonic stock define the phrase 'a long time' rather differently. "How long?" Crowley asked.

"Since the very Beginning,"

Crowley considered that. "Bugger me."

"If you like, my dear. The other way around would also be very acceptable."

Oh, but Crowley could get used to this, to an angel who swore and kissed him and teased him about sex. He miracled a blanket out of the firmament and tucked it tightly around them both, making it impossible for Aziraphale to escape. Really, they could do with a bit more room than this poky sofa, especially for some of the more athletic adventures Crowley had in mind. "We should do this in bed next time."

"I don't have a bed," Aziraphale said, slightly muffled where his face was pressed against Crowley's neck. "What on earth would I do with a bed?"

"I can think of one or two things."

Crowley snuggled closer and stroked a lazy hand up and down Aziraphale's chest and stomach, occasionally brushing a nipple. It felt nice. It felt very nice. Apparently Aziraphale thought so too, judging by the way he was squirming beneath him.

"Crowley? I'm, ah…"

"Hmm? Oh." Crowley moved his hand further down. Aziraphale made a noise. "Are you? I'm sure I can help with that."

Demons are very good at being selfish. That was the plan Crowley was forming as he pulled Aziraphale closer under the blanket and pressed kiss after kiss to his warm, sweet mouth. He was going to take everything Aziraphale was offering, _everything_ , dinners together and walks in the park, kisses and caresses and smiles and devotion, and he was going to keep it all until the end of time. May it be a very, very long way away.


End file.
